


Seven Minutes in Psychopath Heaven

by qthelights



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Closets, Humor, Locked In, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-11
Updated: 2010-06-11
Packaged: 2017-10-30 01:37:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/326332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qthelights/pseuds/qthelights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jensen and Misha get locked in the closet. Things happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven Minutes in Psychopath Heaven

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Семь минут в раю психопата](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1445059) by [Koryuu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Koryuu/pseuds/Koryuu)



Jensen’s heading down the corridor of the empty production office, towards freedom, when Misha jogs up beside him.

“Hey.”

Misha nods non-committally in response. Hands in his pockets, he keeps in step with Jensen.

“Something up?”

“Mhmm,” Misha hums.

Jensen refrains from rolling his eyes. There’s often little point with Misha. It’s like pulling teeth, and it’s gonna be, no matter how frustrated he gets. He tries again, “Care to elaborate?”

Misha sighs. It’s heavy and belaboured, like Jensen is deliberately making his life just so hard. “I’m supposed to distract you.”

Jensen snorts, “You seem to be doing a fairly good job of it so far.”

Misha shakes his head. “Not good enough.”

Jensen’s about to ask from whom or what he’s meant to be distracted from when Misha grabs his wrist and pulls him sideways with a sharp jerk, yanks him into a broom closet off the main corridor. The door shuts behind them with a _snip_ and plunges them into darkness. Very _dark_ darkness.

“What the fuck?” Jensen snaps into the abyss before there’s a rustle and clinking noise and the bare bulb in the closet splutters into swaying low-watted yellow.

They’re in the fucking janitors closet.

The walls are covered in shelves, ominous sounding chemicals and tins of old paint, rusted shut from years of disused erosion. A mop and bucket laze against the back corner and the smell of disinfectant and bleach is pungent in the air.

Misha’s grin is decidedly brighter than the light source.

Jensen really does roll his eyes this time.

“Was that _really_ necessary, Misha?”

“I’m distracting you,” Misha preens.

“No,” Jensen begins carefully, slowly. “You’re beginning to fucking annoy me though.”

Misha’s grin only dims a smidgen. “Aww, c’mon, Jen. It’s only for a minute.”

“Should I ask?”

“Jared.” Is all Misha replies, shrugging his shoulders and turning full circle to examine the sharp instruments and bottles on the shelves around him. Jensen prefers not to think about Misha’s brain cataloguing such an inventory and what fucking insane thing it might come up with out the other side.

“Am I supposed to know that?” Jensen queries.

Misha shrugs again, “Probably not.”

Which amuses Jensen, maybe a little bit. Misha might go along with Jared’s harebrained schemes, but he certainly never did it unless it worked for his own personal reasons. This meant that often the endpoint Jared had in mind wasn’t quite on par with Misha’s execution.

“And how long do we have to stay in here for, exactly?”

Misha looks at his watch, but Jensen can tell it’s for show; he doesn’t actually take in the time on the face. “Until about now? Jared wasn’t very clear on the specifics.”

Jensen nods, “Or you weren’t really listening.”

There’s the grin again, Jensen notes.

“It’s quite possible.” Misha nods.

He's glad that this little charade is not going to set his plans for the evening off kilter. Whatever getting Jensen into a closet accomplished – probably the masterminded plan of Jared walking out ahead of them to pour honey in his bed or super-glue his toilet seat shut – it seems at least to be only the distraction, not the event. Jensen reaches for the door handle and turns it. Or rather, he tries to. The door is locked.

The fuckin’ door is _locked_.

“Misha,” Jensen growls, stretches the name out into one too many syllables.

Misha’s eyes, to his credit, go impossibly wide. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

Jensen sweeps his hand back, _by all means._

Misha concurs that the door is indeed locked. “Um...well. That puts a crimp in things,” he says sagely.

Jensen resists the urge to tap his foot. That would be childish.

Misha turns back to him, eyebrows raised in question. “Do you have your phone?”

With a sinking feeling Jensen realizes he doesn’t. He shakes his head, “It’s in my trailer. It wouldn’t stay on vibrate.”

What he doesn’t add is that it wouldn’t stay on vibrate and it kept blaring out the chorus of ‘Like a Virgin’ every time someone sent him a text message. The director had laughed the first time it had happened, ( _for the very first time_ ), and Jared had crowed victoriously over his mastery of technology. By the fourth time, however, Bob was getting twitchy and the schedule was running behind. When he'd growled that this particular cherry was well and truly popped, Jensen had shoved it at the nearest PA and requested it be left in his trailer. Under a couple of pillows. And a cone of silence.

“Where’s yours?” Misha would have his phone. Misha never went anywhere without it. It was glued to his hand, in Cas’ trench pockets or shoved in the jeans of Misha’s back pocket.

Sure enough, Misha slips it out of the pocket, but the frown suggests there’s a reason not to be jubilant just yet.

“Battery’s dead...I was tweeting..."

Jensen ignores that, even though Misha has the decency to look slightly guilty, and instead tries the door handle again, knowing that it’s gonna be just as locked as it was half a minute ago.

Misha sighs and then matter-of-factly sits down on the floor, crossing his legs lotus-like.

“Seriously? You’re giving up that easily?” Jensen can’t help the bitter edge that seeps into his voice.

Misha just blinks up at him in the gloomy light. “You have a better idea? There’s no one around out there.”

“So what, we’re just going to wait here until Monday morning then, are we?” Jensen snarks back.

This time Misha rolls his eyes. “I was thinking more that we’d wait until Jared realizes his playmates are gone and comes to rescue us like a bloodhound with a fox to track.”

Which is absurd, and Jensen’s gonna say so, when the bulb near his head starts to flicker. He has just enough time to think _‘oh for fucks sake'_ before it splutters one last time and goes out, plunging them into complete darkness. 

"Fuck.”

Misha’s chuckle comes from somewhere below him. Fucker. Jensen ignores him and tries desperately to recall if he saw any flashlights or matches on the shelves nearest him. He doesn’t think so...but maybe...

He reaches out blindly, finds the metal edge of a shelf and slides his fingertips gingerly across it. It’s cold and slippery, and he just prays that he doesn’t hit anything furry, because he is not going to scream like a girl with Misha around to witness it. Hear it. Whatever.

There’d be no living that shit down.

Misha is humming what sounds like the Imperial March under his breath.

Jensen feels something colder than the shelf, metallic, maybe a file of some sort, and then a couple of plastic containers. Nothing that feels like anything useful.

He goes to move down to the next shelf but misjudges where it starts and suddenly something is tipping and in the instant he gropes to catch it he knows it’s a bad idea and that he should be stepping away from the potentially hazardous material, but it’s too late to pull back and something wet and viscous is suddenly coating his fingers as the sound of glass smacking and rolling against metal grates loudly in the darkness.

“What the hell?” Misha’s voice is sharp.

“Fuck!” Jensen yelps, sure that any second his fingers are going to fucking dissolve or bubble up in radioactive blisters.

“Jensen,” Misha demands.

“I spilled something on me,” he answers, twitching his fingers and not feeling any change, just slime.

“Are you okay?” And if he isn’t mistaken, that sounds almost like worry in Misha’s voice.

“Seems like. Probably just paint or something.” He hopes. He wipes his fingers off on his jeans, tries not to think about the mess he’s undoubtedly making.

"Perhaps you should sit down and stop trying to kill yourself?" Misha's sarcasm translates loud and clear, even without the visual.

"Fuck you, man," Jensen gripes, though it's half-hearted, even to his ears. Still. He's willing to concede it might not be the worst idea he's ever heard.

Carefully, _more_ carefully, he feels for the milk crate he knows was at his feet, finds it - checks that it's upturned - and lowers himself down.

"My ass is gonna be criss-crossed by the end of this."

Misha's voice comes out of the darkness, amused. "Your ass is gonna be just as gorgeous as it always is, Jen. Quit complaining."

He stretches his legs out a tiny bit. Manages not to kick Misha in the knee. The silence is unnerving in the darkness. Jensen feels a bit like he's in a sensory deprivation chamber. He doesn't like it. All his actorly instincts are telling him that communication needs sight and sound, that an absence of both is sub-human.

He ends up talking just to break the silence. "This is like being locked in some psychopath's basement."

"Hmm?" Misha's response is querying.

"Like in _Silence of the Lambs_ or something," Jensen clarifies.

"I was thinking it's more like seven minutes in heaven." Comes Misha's dry reply.

"You would."

Misha snorts his amusement. "Well you already played spin the bottle."

"I am not playing seven minutes in heaven with you, Misha." Jensen feels that the eyeroll should be fairly obvious.

It should be at least as obvious as the grin he _hears_ when Misha replies, "Would you rather eat my brains?"

Jensen laughs despite himself. "No thanks. I'm quite happy doing neither of those things."

"You have to choose. Brains or Kissing."

Because apparently they are eleven. Jensen replies automatically without skipping a beat.

"Brains."

He can definitely hear the pout that is absolutely on Misha's face right now.

"I think you're impugning my manliness," Misha says.

"I think I'm impugning your girliness, actually."

"I'll have you know I'm an excellent kisser."

Misha's disembodied voice is definitely petulant.

"I don't doubt it," Jensen laughs.

Misha splutters, clearly not buying Jensen's assurances, though to be fair, they were fairly heavily laced with sarcasm. "Right. That's it, Clarice. Hold onto your knickers."

Jensen gets as far as formulating a response that includes the phrase _did you just say 'knickers'?_ when there's a shuffling and the heat of a body suddenly slides into his space and makes the hair on the back of his arms stand on end.

"Mish--"

But he's cut off when fingertips find the edges of his face and a pair of lips are suddenly smushed up against his own with all the subtlety of a freight train.

Jensen is so shocked that he actually doesn't think about it, just parts his lips and finds his mouth suddenly full of Misha's tongue. Misha's hot, silky, _wet_ , tongue.

It takes him a second. A small second, but one in which the whole book of reasons why he should not be doing this with his co-star, his friend, goes flying out the window. And god help him if he isn't just blithely kissing Misha back. Sucking and stroking Misha's tongue with his own, inhaling his breath and tasting him.

And when Misha makes a truly pornographic noise that he can feel down to the tips of his fucking toes? He remembers why that rule book was there in the first place. Because, _shit_.

He pulls back, out of the reach of Misha's mouth and gasps in a shuddery breath.

" _Jesus_ , Misha."

Thankfully, Misha sounds just as out of breath as he does, though he's clearly trying for vindicated. "I told you I'm an excellent kisser."

"Consider my knickers officially dropped," Jensen manages. It's lame, but it's all his kiss-addled brain can manage.

Jensen isn't sure how it happens, and he'll blame it on the lack of light if asked, 'cause the dark makes you do crazy-ass shit. In any case, Misha's lips are back on his and Misha's fingers are threading through his hair.

And it's surely not Jensen's doing when his hands find Misha's hips and grip tight, pulling him in flush against his body.

When Jared finds and unlocks them from their temporary prison an hour or so later, they emerge, pupils dilated, cheeks flushed and lips swollen.

Jensen's shirt is half-untucked, one of the buttons through the wrong button-hole. Misha has streaks of black oil down his cheek and smudged into his hairline.

Jared raises an eyebrow. "Um...do I want to know?"

Jensen looks at Misha stoically before turning back to Jared.

"I wouldn't eat his brains."


End file.
